How it Feels to watch a Beatle Concert: an extremely unusual but rather Haunting
Thing
By Garret North
Teen Screen Magazine
October 1966
It begins the day you stop just hoping. They day you will let yourself believe you
are finally going to see The Beatles.
Not on a page (Permanent paper smiles).
On a stage. (Moving. Breathing).
When you know this for sure, something new begins…
Then that something begins to tighten. Like a spring. It winds slowly, slowly while you wait for
the utterly impossible. At first you
think you can’t wait any longer. Then
you know you can’t. Then you don’t have
to because you find yourself walking into the place where it will happen. You look at the ticket. But you can’t see it. You find your seat and try to chatter with
good friends whose names suddenly escape you.
You’re like a drum (taut). Like a
cobra (coiled). And you sit for one
hundred years. You’re lucky,
though. You have to look back to see the
maze of faces. You’re near the
stage. But that’s not so lucky. It’s empty.
It always been be. You’re asleep,
dreaming. Or awake, wishing. The Beatles?
Ridiculous. They don’t exist. They’re flat things on an album cover. Without sides and backs. Just faces (more faces). They’re not going to be on that stage any
more than they are somewhere behind it.
Going through motions as humans as your own. Looking in a mirror? Coughing?
Laughing? Lighting a
cigarette? Using the bath? No. (Of course not). Pictures don’t do any of those things. Suddenly the lights dim. There are people on the sage (moving,
breathing), Is it them? No. (Of course
not). An emcee, then a group. Music blares.
You try to listen. You can’t. Something keeps washing over you (in
waves). Thousands of tiny needles jab at
all your skin. The music stops. You try to applaud. Your arms won’t work.
I’m sorry….I’m sorry.
You think those words again and again as the parade of others never seem
to stop. You’re very good. You’re looking fine. I’ve bought your records. But go away (hurry). Get off the stage (run). They don’t hear you. They stay and stay. Then you know. You know it just before it happens. Is it time?
Is it? Yes, it is (I tell you). The lights go down, all the way down. The audience stops squirming and goes
breathless. Emcees multiply in a pool of
light (very bright). Then they say it in
several voices. The words you thought
you’d never hear. “And here they are---
THE BEATLES!” And there they are.
For a split second , your eyes scrape them just to be
sure. Then several thousand voices roar about
love (a kind of welcome). Yours is one
of them. They answer. They smile and gesture and straighten guitar
straps across strong backs. (They do have them). Not pictures.
People. Real enough to
touch. So real you have to. Your hands reach out but it’s too far. They are talking to each other. You strain to hear. You can’t, so your hands come back. They cover your ears to shut out everyone’s
love but your own. Soon they’re reedy. You can tell form fingers poised, prepared to
skin knowingly over strings and reach steal to talk. Then the spring inside you winds a final
round. You want to scream for it to stop
(too tight). But before you can, the
spring breaks at the sound of the first chord.
A crash of music. A collision of
you and them as you meet each other half way.
It’s easier then.
You can think again. You can hear
them better. They give you music. Well-worn songs. Warm familiar words.
Not coming from a record. Coming
from mouths (lips) and hearts (pounding).
Melodies that are memories as well because they have been the background
music of your life. You can see them
better, too.
John. His feet planted defiantly. Moving with and to his sound. Peering at you. Daring you to think he doesn’t know what you’re
thinking. Cool, confident, almost
brusque. But holding a guitar as gently
as a lover.
George. Keeping time
with a long, tight-clad leg. Genius at
work (and play). Straight forward
intensity tempered by a quick and crooked grin.
A lean, hard shoulder to press your face against in dreams.
Paul. So alive you
know he will never be old. Loving you
back with a laugh, a wave, a wink. The
fresh-scrubbed cheeky innocence of a boy.
Hair like dark smoke at the crest of a volcano where the fires of a man
burn.
Ringo. A flash of
flying sticks and swinging hair. Completely
at home behind a set of drums. Not so
much at home behind a microphone. Too
gentle for that. The dear man from
Dingle. Tapping out a rhythm that has
become the heartbeat of our generation.
There. All of
them. Then gone. All of them.
All of you, too. It seems that
way as they make their famous bow while the screaming begs them to stay
(please). It seems that way when you
stare at an empty stage and walk away on someone else’s legs. But it isn’t that way at all (my
friend). You find this out soon. All of you is not gone. There’s more of you instead. And you can never pass the place where a
dream came true without wanting to say thank you. That something new which began because of
them. Part of it was excitement. A balloon of anticipation that was destined
to burst (and it did). But part of it
was something there are no words for. Something
very quiet and private that made you new, too.
And that part never ends. It
never ends.
Wow. Once again, it's like you rescued a puppy from the pound. Thanks for posting this, this piece of writing now will last forever! The photo is beautiful also. Blown away. Just when I think it can't get any better.....Saracadabra.....something like this pops up.
ReplyDelete